


as i stare on and on into the past, in the end you emerge

by sanzuh



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Attempted Sexual Assault, F/M, Harry the Arse, Implied/Referenced Sexual Abuse, Jon Snow is King in the North, Jon goes to the vale, Post - A Dance With Dragons, R Plus L Equals J, littlefinger is his own warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:42:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27631559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanzuh/pseuds/sanzuh
Summary: Jon travels to the Vale to find allies in the fight against the army of the dead.Before he could stammer his way through an answer--Myranda was not lying, Alayne's blush only enhanced her beauty--she said sharply, "You ought to quit bothering His Grace with your foolish babbling.""You shouldn't be so harsh on your companion, Lady Alayne. She is not bothering me." You do seem bothered, but is it by her teasing, or merely by my presence? "And I believe she is complimenting you.""You are too easily beguiled, Your Grace," she answered him promptly. "Lady Myranda is not some innocent maiden who's simply trying to be kind to her friend. She's been at this game for a long while now."Jon raised his eyebrows. "I'm afraid I'm not following you."She patted her friend's shoulder. "Myranda here is always drawing attention to my more alluring qualities in order to pawn me off to some other man so she can steal Harry from me.""Harry?""My betrothed," Alayne said simply."Are you being allured yet, Your Grace?" Myranda asked him.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Alayne Stone, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 33
Kudos: 176
Collections: Jonsa Holidays 2020





	1. Jon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jade_Masquerade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jade_Masquerade/gifts).



> I really liked your prompts/requests, so instead of just choosing one, I tried to combine them. (except for the Jonsa babies part, which wouldn't work, for obvious reasons 😄)
> 
> I hope you'll like your gift, that you and your loved ones stay safe, and that you'll get to enjoy the holidays!
> 
> Happy holidays to everyone else reading this as well! 
> 
> 😘🥰💕
> 
> Title from _Unending Love_ by Rabindranath Tagore  
> 
> 
> A/N re tags:
> 
> Attempted sexual assault refers to Harry trying to force a kiss on Alayne 
> 
> Referenced sexual abuse refers to Littlefinger's canon treatment of Sansa in ASOS/AFFC

The Eyrie might be their best hope. Jon had thought so for a long while. He'd considered asking the Vale of Arryn for aid when he'd still been Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Now that he'd become responsible not only for Castle Black and the Wall, but for the entire North, he could no longer let any of his misgivings stand in the way of doing so.

He'd since learned that Lady Lysa Arryn had died, murdered by a singer she had favoured. He didn't know much about her widower, Petyr Baelish, who'd become Lord Regent for her young son Robert Arryn, but he hoped the other Lords of the Vale might show Ned Stark's bastard their sympathies, as the previous Warden of the North had been fostered there. Coming here as Ned Stark's son was a lie, though a necessary one. He wouldn't share the truth until the Others had been defeated, though the burden was quickly becoming too heavy for him to carry alone. He had finally united the North, he wouldn't be the one to divide it again. 

They were stopped and questioned at the Bloody Gate, and were told they wouldn't be able to travel to the Eyrie but that they would instead be received at the Arryn's winter seat, the Gates of the Moon. Beyond the actual gates and the gatehouse, he discovered when they arrived there, was a stout, square castle at the foot of the mountain, built in the embrace of its rugged foothills, which were covered by pines and sentinels.

Looming above it all was the Giant's Lance itself, a jagged peak that stood taller than the other Mountains of the Moon. Jon felt his neck would start to ache if he kept looking up to locate its snow-clad summit amidst the swirling mists high above him. He sent Ghost off to go hunting. As proven by the guards at the Bloody Gate, the people of the Vale had never seen a direwolf before. Jon should keep him close later on, but for now, he would enter the castle without his closest companion. 

Satin and the other men were shown to the guesthouse while Jon, Ser Marlon Manderly, Alysane Mormont and Larence Hornwood were led through a spacious yard that was centred around a large well toward the Great Hall.

He tried not to wince when he was announced as Jon Stark, King in the North. He had once dreamed of no longer being a Snow, but now the name and the title left a bitter taste in his mouth. All of his trueborn brothers and sisters had died for him to be able to take up the Stark name, though he didn't even the right to call them his siblings. He would have to brave through this. It wouldn't be the first time he'd sacrifice his own honour for the greater good.

Rhaegar Targaryen had believed that his son would save the Seven Kingdoms from a great evil, and Jon would try, not because of a prophecy the Dragon Prince had read in a musty old book, but because of the love he held for the man who raised him, and for his family. The deception weighed heavy on him, yet he had no choice but to see it through. 

They were welcomed by a short and buxom young woman with curly brown hair. She was clad in a purple gown with a dangerously low neckline. "Your Grace," she greeted him, and acknowledged his companions. "My lords, my lady." The way she talked drew attention to her small mouth. "I am Myranda Royce. Let me introduce you to my lord father and my brother."

The family connection was clear in their tendency for plumpness, and in the shape of their noses, but no one would be able to mistake Nestor and Albar Royce for anything other than father and son. The Keeper of the Gates was massive and barrel-chested, with a bald head and a greying beard. His son was a younger, more broad-shouldered version of the High Steward, who still had all of his hair and fierce black whiskers that framed his homely face to boot. 

Jon introduced his companions, pleasantries were exchanged, offers of bread and salt were made, and Lord Royce informed Jon that the Lord Protector would be away for a couple of days, but that he and his retinue were welcome in the Vale and that he would be received with all the honours befitting a king.

Jon clenched his sword hand at that last comment, but he took a step forward to thank his host with what he hoped would be a pleasant enough smile, when he was suddenly taken by the feeling that someone was watching him. He risked a glance around the Hall, which was both spacious and richly furnished, with colourful tapestries covering most of the walls, and found a young, dark-haired woman staring down at him from the pillared gallery. When she caught him looking at her, she pulled her hands back from the banister and whirled around, hurrying away to a winding staircase.

Though she'd been too far away for him to get a good look at her, he was quite certain he did not know her. He had never been to the Vale before, and though he remembered Bronze Yohn Royce visiting Winterfell on his way to the Wall, where his son was going to take the black years before Jon had made his own journey to Castle Black, he knew they were not the same Royces who held the title of Keeper of the Gates. As he was led to his chambers, he found himself wondering why the girl had appeared so shocked at the sight of him. 

She was walking arm in arm with Myranda Royce in the upper bailey the second time he saw her. She was taller than he'd guessed her to be, with chestnut brown hair and a fair face with fine features, and eyes so blue they stirred something in him he could only describe as both a pang of sadness and a spark of joy. He tore his own eyes away from her, not wishing to frighten her by staring at her, and looked at the Lady Myranda.

"Your Grace!" she greeted him with a mischievous smile, exchanging a quick glance with the other girl. "Have you met Lady Alayne Stone, the Lord Protector's natural daughter?"

Jon didn't miss the way Alayne briefly pursed her lips at Myranda's emphasis on the word 'natural,' before she dipped into a graceful curtsy and offered him a dazzling smile. "Your Grace."

"My lady." He bowed his head to her. 

"You're blushing again, Alayne," Myranda pointed out. "But she blushes so prettily, wouldn't you agree, Your Grace? Terribly enticing I daresay."

Before he could stammer his way through an answer--Myranda was not lying, Alayne's blush only enhanced her beauty--she said sharply, "You ought to quit bothering His Grace with your foolish babbling."

Lady Myranda narrowed her eyes at her friend, but Alayne glared right back. 

"You shouldn't be so harsh on your companion, Lady Alayne," he said, mostly to break the silence and the tension. "She is not bothering me." _You do seem bothered, but is it by her teasing, or merely by my presence?_ "And I believe she is complimenting you."

"You are too easily beguiled, Your Grace," she answered him promptly, meeting his gaze. "Lady Myranda is not some innocent maiden who's simply trying to be kind to her friend. She's been at this game for a long while now."

Jon raised his eyebrows. "I'm afraid I'm not following you."

She patted her friend's shoulder. "Myranda here is always drawing attention to my more alluring qualities in order to pawn me off to some other man so she can steal Harry from me."

"Harry?"

"My betrothed," Alayne said simply.

"Are you being allured yet, Your Grace?" Myranda asked him.

Jon was grateful that his own blushing was usually limited to the tips of his ears turning red, which were currently hidden under his hair. The sun appeared from behind a cloud, bringing out streaks of copper in Alayne's hair, lending her a striking and heartbreaking resemblance to the family he had lost.

"You are very alluring, Lady Alayne," he said gruffly. "If you'll excuse me now."

He could have sworn he heard a giggle burst from Myranda's lips as he stalked away from the two women.

Jon decided he didn't like the Lord Protector of the Vale within moments of meeting him. There was something distasteful about the way he smiled and stroked his pointy beard. He also looked rather pompous in his blue velvet doublet with puffed sleeves.

Jon noted that he and his daughter didn't look anything alike. Lord Baelish was short while Alayne was tall for a woman, and where Alayne's features were delicate, his own were sharp. Alayne's eyes were blue as a summer sky, but Petyr's were greenish and sly like a cat's.

Alayne's mother must have been a great beauty, and after only a short conversation with Baelish, he suspected the little man must have talked his way into her bed. He was good with words, though his vagueness and ambiguity were swiftly turning into a source of frustration for Jon.

Convinced that Baelish would mock him, might even laugh in his face if he started telling him about the Others and the wights without proof, he ordered his men to bring in the casket in which they'd transported the wight that had been locked in Castle Black's ice cells for the last couple of years.

"I'd advise you to stay back, my lord," Jon warned Baelish. Two of his men started prying open the chest as two of Jon's own soldiers and four of the Lord Protector's own guards stayed close. 

The wight rolled from the casket, a moving corpse, bound in ropes from shoulders to ankles, greenish rotting flesh hanging from grey bones. Its eyes were bright blue and it screeched, writhing as it struggled against its bonds.

Lord Baelish flinched and stumbled back, gasping as he did and pressed a handkerchief to his mouth and nose. 

After his men had forced the wight back into the casket and had nailed it shut, Jon explained the threat of the Others to Baelish, who listened with trembling hands and furtive glances at the casket. Jon tried not to smirk as he noticed how the colour of his skin had come to resemble that of the wight. 

"Shall we sit down to discuss our alliance?" Jon suggested.

Baelish nodded weakly and they walked over to the table. 


	2. Alayne

Alayne had been wondering why father had asked her to come to his solar after his meeting with the King in the North, but she had certainly not expected him to ask of her what he just had.

"I can't marry Jon Snow," she blurted out.

"Jon Stark now," he corrected her. "And why couldn't you, sweetling?" he asked her, offering her a concerned frown over the rim of his cup of wine.

It had been a long time since she had slipped up, but it shouldn't come as a surprise to her that it would happen now that Jon had been at the Gates of the Moon for the last couple of days. 

"What I meant to say," she started slowly, taking a seat and accepting the cup he offered her, "Sansa Stark can't marry Jon Snow-Stark."

He smiled at her, but it faded quickly, and she hadn't missed the flash in his eyes, though she couldn't tell with any certainty what it meant. "Sansa Stark can't marry anyone yet," he agreed. "That much is true. But you can, Alayne."

"What about Harry, father?" she asked him.

"What about him?"

Alayne frowned. Surely father understood that Harry might not be pleased if she didn't marry him after all? "Wouldn't we be offending him by breaking my betrothal to him so I can wed the king?"

"I'm certain it will be break his heart, sweetling," he conceded, though that was not what she had meant. "But you can be assured I've already thought of a way to soften the blow for him."

Of course he had. He did understand. It was silly of her to believe he hadn't. When he didn't elaborate on his plan, she asked, "How soon would I have to wed the king?"

"Soon. The North needs our aid swiftly, so I'm afraid we can't stall."

She gripped her cup more tightly, though she hadn't taken a single sip of wine yet, and tried to keep her face blank.

"You seem reluctant, dear daughter," he said with a tilt of his head. "Why?"

She'd promised him she could be Alayne at all times, even in her heart, but the prospect of wedding Jon was making that difficult right now. Father might be cross if she tried to hide it from him, so she decided to be honest with him. "Jon Snow and Sansa Stark," she started. "They are-they were..." She couldn't say it, not if what he was asking of her was real.

"Ah," he whispered, nodding gravely. He set his cup aside and placed his elbows on the table, bringing the tops of his fingers together as he looked at her over his hands and sighed. "Sweetling, you disappoint me. I would have thought you'd have more faith in me than this."

"I do, father," she refuted quickly.

He shook his head. "It makes no matter. If you insist, I suppose there is something I could tell you about Jon Snow, a secret if you will. Would you like to know?"

She knew he wanted her to say no, to prove that she did trust him, but he had made her curious, so she said, "Yes, father, please."

When she was abed that night, Alayne kept thinking about Jon's secret. She wanted to believe that he didn't know, that he was unaware of the knowledge father had shared with her, but even if he did, she couldn't truly blame him for accepting the Stark name and the title of King. Robb and Arya and Bran and Rickon were all dead, and so was Sansa, in a way. If Jon thought he was the only one left, he wasn't truly usurping anyone, despite what father might think.

The following night, there was a welcoming feast for the King in the North and his retinue. As Alayne watched the preparations from the gallery, she saw Harry working his charm on a couple of serving girls. One of them let him put his hand on her waist and whisper in her ear. Had it truly only been the day before Jon's arrival that he'd declared his undying love for her? She didn't quite know yet how to feel about her possible upcoming marriage to Jon, even though she'd learned that he was not Sansa's half-brother, but the fact that it would free her from her betrothal to Harry only brought her relief. 

Once the guests had arrived, Alayne played her part, talking to Jon and his companions, but she ignored Harry to the best of her ability. She let Ser Marlon Manderly tell her about White Harbour, expressed her admiration for the women of Bear Island to Alysane Mormont and asked the former Larence Snow how he felt about being appointed as the new lord of the Hornwood. Father had allowed her to wear a green velvet gown tonight, and she felt pretty and happy as she ate and conversed with her table mates. 

Myranda was claiming Jon's attention, but it pleased Alayne to see him listening in on her conversations whenever he could. Though father had told her she should entice him the way she had with Harry, he had also warned her that she would need to prove her worth to his people as well. Harry was only a knight who might inherit the Eyrie and the Vale one day, but Jon already ruled a kingdom that spanned half the continent. She had to show him she could be a capable queen before father presented the idea of a possible union to him.

She tried to downplay her knowledge about the North, but whenever she did demonstrate that she was aware of matters a bastard girl from Gulltown shouldn't know about, she emphasized how she'd studied Northern houses and histories after learning their King would be visiting. She hid her face in her cup when she caught Jon staring at her after she had said that.

Sweetrobin was playing the part of lordling effortlessly tonight. Alayne believed he'd improved tremendously since they had moved down the mountain. He even talked to Harry and to Jon, whom he said he didn't trust because he believed he wanted to seize his kingdom. 

When the sweets were served, Myranda, who had heard her sing before, harassed her into performing a song for the others, but before she could decide on one, little lord Robert loudly requested the song of the Winged Knight, and she decided to indulge him. When the song was over, she lowered her eyes when the other guests praised her voice and gladly accepted the cup of wine Jon offered her, drinking deeply from it.

As hostess, Myranda shared the first dance with Jon, but Alayne was not surprised when he turned up next to her seat as some of the other women at the feast started flocking around him to get their own chance at a spin around the floor with the King.

He stood staring at her for a couple of moments and then cleared his throat.

She smiled up at him. "Yes, Your Grace?" she asked demurely.

For a moment he looked down at his feet with his fists clenched by his side. "Forgive me, my lady," he said, glancing up, "but I told the other ladies I had promised you my second dance."

"I believe that is what would be called a lie," she told him, arching an eyebrow. "Why would you do such a thing, Your Grace?"

"I am not particularly fond of dancing, and I don't know any of those ladies, which would make the situation even more awkward, I'm afraid."

"We don't truly know each other yet either though," she pointed out. "But you expect me to agree to this little scheme of yours?"

"I wouldn't call it a scheme," he muttered, "but, aye, I suppose I do. If it please you."

She pretended to consider it for a moment. "I reckon it would be rather unseemly of me not to save you from this predicament and allow you to embarrass yourself in front of your hosts, so I will dance with you, Your Grace."

By chance, or by design, the musicians happened to play a Northern song for the next dance. He bowed and she curtsied and they closed the distance between them. She tried to focus on the steps and on keeping a smile on her face as they danced, and forced any memory of how Sansa had practiced this dance with him when they were children from her mind.

As the music sped up, she remembered how he would always miscount the steps of the following part, and before she could stop herself, she reminded him, "Three steps now."

He narrowed his eyes at her and only took two steps before turning, his right foot almost landing on her toes, but she managed to pull away in time, and bit her lip as she smiled up at him.

"Are you mocking me, my lady?" he asked her.

"I hear the punishment for mocking a king can be severe, so I'll choose to deny it, Your Grace."

"I told you I'm not very fond of dancing. I'm not particularly good at it."

"I reckon you wouldn't have had many opportunities to practice at the Wall," she tried to mollify him. He offered her a grin that lit up his sullen face.

Harry was already waiting for her when the dance ended, and his jaw was clenched when he acknowledged Jon with a curt bow of his head. 

"Will you dance with your betrothed now, Alayne?" he asked her.

She apologized to Jon and turned back to Harry. "I suppose I will."

After her dance with Harry, Alayne retreated to a corner and watched Jon trying to avoid having to dance with more women. She smiled into her cup as she watched him glance around, desperate for a way to escape. He ended up dancing with a couple more girls and stepping on more toes, but when he caught sight of her, he approached her for the second time that night.

"Am I to be your knight in shining armour again on this night, Your Grace?"

The smile he offered her was sheepish and boyish, and it made him look like the lad Sansa had once known. So far, she had been trying to avoid looking at his face for too long, the sight of it bringing back too many painful memories, but now she allowed herself to drink him in.

He didn't look quite as much as Eddard Stark as she had imagined on that first day. He was taller than Sansa's father had been, his face was not quite as thin, and he only had a bit of scruff on his chin where Ned had had a full but neatly trimmed beard. His eyes were a darker grey, and he had quite a number of scars on his face for such a young man.

An odd desire to reach out and brush her fingers over the ones that ran over his right eye overwhelmed her, and she clutched the skirts of her gown to stop herself from doing so. She lowered her eyes, but glanced up again almost immediately, wishing to keep looking at him. 

"All right then," she told him. "I can keep you away from them, if you walk with me for a spell."

He offered her his arm, and she took it, resisting the urge to lean into his touch. She led him along the long strip of the Hall that had been left empty. "Tell me about Winterfell."

He told her about the godswood, and the Glass Gardens, about the crypts and the hot springs, about sparring in the training yard and feasts and snowball fights, and her heart ached. Sansa missed her home, but Alayne listened in awe to the love and longing she could hear in Jon's voice.

Jon had stopped walking as he talked and his face had grown sullen. He tilted his head up--Alayne suspected he might be trying to hide the tears that were glistening in his eyes--and for half a heartbeat, he went rigid. Instinctively, she looked up and quickly found the cause of his reaction. 

The servants had hung flowers and sweet-smelling herbs from the rafters, and a couple of feet above their heads, was a bush of mistletoe. Alayne wondered briefly which poor soul had been sent out to collect it. 

"A good omen," she told him.

His chin jerked down. "You don't know what it means?"

She pursed her lips to suppress a smile. Of course she did, but she decided to pretend she did not. "Peace and love," she said innocently, studying his face. "Protection."

"Aye," he said, a couple of heartbeats too late.

She held his gaze and held a tight grip on his arms, sensing that he was about to pull away. "What is it you're not telling me, Your Grace?"

He looked down at his feet. "It's a Northern tradition," he said, still avoiding her eyes. It happened to be a tradition in the Vale as well. "When a man and a woman find themselves under a hanging of mistletoe, they are obliged to kiss." The tips of his ears had turned red, and Alayne believed she might be blushing as well.

She let the smile she'd been holding in tug up her lips and said, "Then, by all means, you should kiss me, Your Grace." She tilted her chin up and to the side to offer him her cheek. 

His lips were soft and warm against her skin, and they lingered a moment too long to be entirely proper, but Alayne didn't mind. 


	3. Jon

After sharing another dance with Alayne, Jon had returned to the head table on the dais. The young Lord of the Vale had been sent to bed, and most of the guests had scattered across the dance floor and the other tables. Jon sat in his chair, nursing a cup of wine as he watched the other guests, and talked to whomever chose to take a seat close to him. His eyes kept seeking out Alayne of their own accord. He was loath to admit that when she'd asked him to kiss her, he had thought she meant a real kiss. 

He wasn't quite sure what was happening to him. He'd never been one to be easily swayed by beauty, or to become smitten after only a few meetings, but for some reason, he found himself so strongly drawn to Alayne that he couldn't ignore it. It was almost as if part of him recognized something deep inside of her, and was dying to rediscover it. 

He'd been back in his seat for about half an hour, when suddenly Harrold Hardyng came up to him and asked if he could sit down. After a nod from Jon, he did and accepted a cup of wine from one of the serving girls, turning his head in the same direction as Jon's, watching the people in the Hall with him.

Jon had seen Ser Harrold a couple of times, mostly from afar, though they had not talked before, and he believed he was a good man, even though he was probably a bit full of himself, which was to be expected. He was a knight, and his hard muscles, deep blue eyes and dimples made him a handsome young man. He was the heir presumptive to the Eyrie and the Vale, and as its current lord was a sickly child, it seemed likely he would inherit both titles. He was also Alayne's betrothed, so it came as no surprise to Jon that she was the subject he wished to discuss. 

Harry, as everyone here seemed to call him, was too far into his cups, Jon decided almost as soon as he had opened his mouth. He told Jon in great detail how their betrothal had come about, including the fact that he hadn't been happy about it at first. "She _is_ Littlefinger's bastard after all," he clarified.

Jon clenched his jaw, and his fingers tightened around his cup. 

"But she is pretty, and clever, too," Harry continued. "It's a shame she's so cold."

Jon agreed with the first part of his assessment, but he didn't think Alayne was cold. Personally he had thought her warm and witty whenever they'd talked. 

"Half the time, she doesn't want to dance with me," he lamented, as only inebriated men do. That was odd. Alayne had told Jon that she loved to dance.

"She was reluctant to give me her favour during the tourney," Harry complained, taking a long swig of wine. "And she won't even allow me one little kiss, let alone a bit more."

 _Ah,_ so that was the nub. Jon's sympathy for the man dwindled. Perhaps he was just eager and truly besotted with Alayne, but to Jon it sounded more as if Harry thought their betrothal granted him permission to take liberties, and apparently Alayne didn't feel the same way. 

Harry sat up and waved his finger at Jon. "You shouldn't trust her, nor her father."

"Thank you for your counsel, Ser," Jon answered him, more out of courtesy than any other reason. He had already appraised Lord Baelish as an untrustworthy fellow, and though he was captivated by Alayne's charms, there was something about her that felt off. But he had seen Harry glaring at him when he'd danced with her earlier, so he didn't have much need to question his motives for sharing this information with him. 

Harry hauled himself up from his chair and lifted his cup to Jon. "Your Grace," he slurred. 

When he was alone again, Alysane Mormont leaned over the table and muttered: "We weren't wrong to come here. They have plenty of food. I hope you'll be able to secure it."

So far, he hadn't been able to come to an agreement with Lord Baelish, and their negotiations hadn't left him any wiser either. He knew the Lord Protector was playing a game, but he couldn't quite figure out what it was yet. 

His eyes found Alayne again, who was standing just in front of the dais, talking and laughing with Myranda Royce and a skinny girl with short and shaggy black hair who he'd seen sitting below the salt earlier. 

Harry had found her as well, and he inserted himself into their conversation, trying to pull Alayne into an embrace. Jon clenched and unclenched his sword hand, and Alayne tried to push Harry away. They were arguing now, and though Jon knew it would be unwise, he started wondering whether he should intervene. 

More people were starting to notice their disagreement, and silence fell over the dais and the surrounding tables as people kept watching them. Jon was not close enough to understand Harry's drunken mumbling, but when he grabbed Alayne and tried to kiss her, it was clear what they'd been arguing about. 

The other women managed to free her from his grasp, but Harry begged her, "Please, just one kiss, Alayne!"

"You'll be kissing the rushes if you keep that up!" Alayne threw back at him, and then Myranda emptied her cup of wine over his head. 

Jon had spent the morning sparring with Larence and Alysane, and with some of the Gates' guards. He'd retreated to his chambers to freshen up, and had decided to join his men in the guesthouse's mess hall for a midday meal. When he arrived there, he found Alayne dawdling by the door, absentmindedly glancing to the right and then looking around again with her hands folded behind her back.

"Lady Alayne? What are you doing here?"

"Your Grace." She seemed a bit startled, but offered him a wide smile. "Oh, I came here with my friend Mya," she answered his question, nodding over at the end of a table to her right where he could see the girl with short, black hair whom she had been talking to at the feast. "She's taken an interest in your steward," Alayne whispered, and indeed, when he looked again, he could see Satin sitting across from the girl. 

"I was just about to leave," she continued, but still lingered.

"You could stay and share a meal with me," he suggested. He'd intended to find her and talk to her anyway after the proposal Lord Baelish had made him yesterday, so now that she was here, he might as well take advantage of that. 

She grinned at him. "I would love to, Your Grace."

As they sat down with their food, he wondered whether he should ask her about the incident with Harry at the feast, but if she had been upset about it, she seemed to have forgotten it by now. He didn't wish to beat about the bush, so he told her, "Your father wishes for me to wed you."

She closed her lips around a spoonful of stew, keeping her eyes on her bowl until she swallowed and said, "So I have heard."

Her face remained blank, which meant he would have to ask her directly. "Would you be agreeable to this match?"

"I am a dutiful daughter, and you make an excellent match, Your Grace."

Jon frowned, puzzled by her tepid and subdued response. Ser Harrold had called her cold, though Jon had dismissed that, especially after the spectacle he had witnessed, but now he could sort of see it. Perhaps Alayne didn't wish to wed at all. If that was the case, he wished for her to tell him so directly. he could understand her reluctance to do so, but he was not in the mood for games. 

"Please, Lady Alayne, that's not what I asked."

She stirred her stew and looked up at him, tilting her head to the side and shrugged. "I'll have to think about it."

Jon spooned up his own stew and ate in silence for a while. "Would you prefer to marry Ser Harrold? He seems fond of you."

"Harry the Arse?" she huffed. "Oh yes, he's very fond of me, and of other women as well!"

So Ser Harrold was a philanderer.

"You saw the way he behaved at the feast!" she continued, smoothing back her hair with one hand, while the one that was holding her spoon trembled. "If he knew--she clasped a hand over her mouth and stared into her stew. Jon wondered briefly what she considered so shocking that she couldn't share it with him.

She was quiet for a while until she murmured, "We both know the only reason he even dared to be so forward with all those people watching us is because I don't have a real name." Her anger had deflated, and the venom was gone from her voice. 

Being a man, that had never been part of his struggle growing up as a bastard, though he had heard often enough that bastard children were born of lust and lies, and that their nature was wanton and treacherous, so he could see how men with bad intentions might take advantage of that--but still, he believed wine and jealousy had been the cause of Harry's behaviour, not Alayne's name or lack thereof. 

"I am sorry, Alayne," he said softly. Though he no longer suspected Harry was truly the reason for Alayne's reluctance, he couldn't help adding, "Harry is a knight though, the heir to the Eyrie. And women appear to find him attractive." 

She pointed her spoon at him and grinned. "But you are a king, and quite handsome as well."

Jon tried to hide his face by looking down into his bowl of stew. The only woman who'd ever called him handsome before was probably Ygritte. He scooped up another spoon of stew and tried to focus on the other part of her answer. Marrying a king would indeed be quite an accomplishment for a bastard girl like Alayne.

"I might not be king forever," he muttered, forgetting himself for a moment, "but, aye, you're right, you'd become queen if you married me. Wouldn't you like that?"

She put her spoon down and sat back, wringing her hands together in her lap. "Wanting to be queen is a foolish and dangerous dream, especially for a girl like me." He wanted to reach out and brush the look of anguish from her lovely face. 

She bit her lip. "You may be king, but would you be kind to me? Would you love me? Tell me, Your Grace, how many women have you known? And how many bastards have you sired?"

 _Would you love me?_ Was that what she truly wanted, to be loved? "Only one, and none," he answered her last two questions. "And, aye, I would try to be kind to you." He knew he hadn't replied to her second question, but he couldn't really give her a true answer to that one yet anyway.

"I suppose that makes you better than Harry," she conceded. "He has two daughters by two different mothers, Alys Stone and Cicely Stone."

Harry couldn't be much older than he was, but he had been careless enough to father two bastards already. Jon could see why that made Alayne opposed to wanting him as a husband, despite being a bastard herself, or perhaps even because of it. 

"And what would your people say, if you married a bastard girl whose father barely has the right to call himself a nobleman?"

"I was born a bastard myself," he reminded her.

She nodded, picking up her own spoon again. "I'm aware of that."

"Your father is Lord of Harrenhal, and Lord Protector of the Vale," he pointed out. "And my people would see you arrive in the North with soldiers to defend them, and with food and other resources."

Her smile was wistful. "So you would be marrying me for the Vale's men and its resources."

"I came to the Vale for its men and resources," he admitted, "not to make a marriage, but your father has made marrying you the price for what I want."

She tilted her chin up and gave him a haughty look that was oddly familiar to him. "And do you consider it a steep price to pay?"

He decided to take a chance and reached out to cover her hand with his own. "Alayne," he said, "any man would be lucky to have you as a wife."

She looked down and bit her lip, but she didn't manage to hide her soft smile. "Careful, Your Grace," she murmured when she glanced up at him again, "if you keep this up, I'll start blushing again."

"Then I'll be sure to continue," he told her. "You are very pretty when you blush."

He released her hand and they ate their stew in silence, until Alayne said, ""I think you are a good man, Your Grace. And perhaps you would make a fine husband as well."

He wasn't sure how to respond to that, so he only smiled back at her. 

"If we were wed, would you take me back to Winterfell with you?" she asked suddenly.

He hadn't given it much thought yet. "Aye, unless you'd prefer to stay here."

Something akin to joy flashed in her eyes as she tilted her head to the side again. "Hmm, no, I don't think that would be right," she answered, trying to hide the excitement in her voice. "A wife's place is by her husband's side."

For a moment, her smile and her words made him dream his old dream again, to be Lord of Winterfell, with a lady wife by his side who loved him and gave him children, but it was brutally disrupted when he was reminded of the ugly truth of his birth. 

Alayne frowned, apparently sensing the shift in his mood, but she said, "I'd like to see your home," and offered him another encouraging smile. "Is it cold inside the keep?"

He'd loved telling her about Winterfell and he was glad to explain more. "Do you remember what I told you about the hot springs in the godswood? The castle was built over more of those springs. Their water is pumped through the walls, so it's always warm."

"That sounds lovely," she sighed. She seemed to love listening to all his stories about Winterfell as much as he enjoyed telling them. It warmed his heart, and made him eager to take her back there, the way he'd once hoped to do with Ygritte. Perhaps he could have his dream with Alayne, if only for a short while. But that didn't seem fair to her. 

"I have matters to attend to," he said. "I'll leave you alone to consider... this," he concluded awkwardly. 

"I've changed my mind," she announced.

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I said I'd have to think about it," she reminded him. "But I don't need to, not anymore. I believe I would like to marry you, Your Grace."

 _Gods,_ could he be selfish enough to let her live that lie with him until it was shattered? "Jon," he said. "Call me Jon."

"Jon," she repeated softly, and he wished he didn't like the way her lips curled around his name as much as he did.


	4. Alayne/Sansa

Alayne liked living at the the Gates of the Moon. She preferred it to the Eyrie. It was livelier and she always had a friend around, but once she had broken her fast, she found that she was not in the mood for company today. Her head felt very full with all the new information she had learned in the last couple of days, and she kept thinking of the possibility of returning to Winterfell sooner than she'd anticipiated. Jon coming here truly had changed everything. 

Alayne decided she wanted to be alone for a while, but solitude was hard to find once she left her own chambers. The Gates of the Moon didn't have a godswood, but there was a dense forest of spruce and pine beyond the upper bailey's postern gate, and that was where she chose to go. 

She didn't walk far, seeking out a large boulder with a flat surface under one of the tallest spruces. She'd brought some needlework to keep her hands busy. The forest was quiet, apart from the normal sounds of some smaller woodland creatures, but suddenly, she heard pattering and swishing, a ripple in the air, a disturbance in the shrubbery.

The rustling of leaves and crunching of twigs grew louder, came nearer, and she realized that the low thumps that came with it were caused by large paws padding across the forest floor. Alayne jumped to her feet, wanting to run, but a feeling in her gut held her back, warning her it would be a bad decision.

A huge white shape emerged from the rockfoil bushes and trotted up to her, calmly gazing at her with bright red eyes. The direwolf stood almost as tall as her.

"Ghost?" she whispered, the tears coming to her eyes unbidden.

He nudged her shoulder with his muzzle and she almost lost her footing. She laughed and extended a hand, reaching out to regain her balance, and her fingers found his neck. She carded them through his thick, white fur. He shifted and pushed his muzzle into her hand.

"Oh, Ghost," she whispered again. 

Ghost curled up on the spruce-needle covered ground and Sansa sat back down on the boulder, keeping her eyes on him to make sure that he hadn't been a dream. 

As she watched the direwolf and worked her needle and thread to create delicate flower petals, she realized she should tell Jon who she was. Would he be happy? Or would he be disappointed that he had found her instead of Arya? He would take her home if she asked him, of that she was sure, but what would happen then?

She also wondered whether she ought to tell him that she knew the truth about him, as well. What if Petyr was wrong, and Jon didn't even realize that father had lied to him, to all of them? Would he want her to tell him the truth? In the songs, it would be simple. The hidden prince's true name would be revealed and he would win his throne and wed a beautiful maiden. Once, Sansa had believed she could be that maiden, a lady from a song. But life was not a song, so where did that leave her and Jon?

The idea of marrying Jon didn't daunt her as much as it had at first. Since learning that he was her cousin, she had realized she had never truly seen him as a brother, safe for those few short days when he had first come to the Vale, and even then, it hadn't been entirely true, as she had still been Alayne then. She still was, but it was getting more difficult to hide Sansa away behind the bastard girl.

Alayne could marry Jon, but Sansa couldn't. If Alayne married him, he would take her home with him, but he might hate her one day, when he found out the truth. If Sansa asked him to take her home, he would, but his quest would be futile. Alayne could give him the Vale, but Sansa couldn't. And that was exactly why she couldn't tell him. Jon needed the Vale, the North needed the Vale. She couldn't be selfish now, she had to be brave, and remain Alayne. 

She stood and bade Ghost goodbye, promising him she would come back. 

When she returned to the castle, she headed to the Great Hall. Some of the maids there would sing as they worked, and Alayne liked to watch them and listen from the pillared gallery. To her surprise, someone was already up there when she arrived, and she recognized Jon before he'd turned around.

"Your Grace!" she exclaimed.

"Jon," he reminded her.

"Jon," she corrected herself. "I wasn't expecting to find you here."

He turned around and placed his hands over the banister. "I saw you on this gallery a couple of times, and I got curious to see what the Hall looks like from up here."

She walked up until she was standing next to him and could see the Hall below, where the servants were replacing the rushes. "You can see everything from up here," she told him. "I like that. But sometimes I want more." From the corner of her eye, she could see him turning to look at her, but she kept her eyes on the people moving around below them.

"What do you mean?" he asked her. 

She reached out with one hand to clasp it over the banister. "Sometimes I wish I wouldn't have to be myself anymore," she confessed, "that I could be a bird and fly away from here."

He was silent for a long while before he asked, "Aren't you happy here?"

"I like it here." She shrugged. "But I miss home."

"Marrying me wouldn't bring you home," he piped up.

She looked down to hide her smile. "It might be my best chance at building a new home for myself."

"Alayne," he said, and he suddenly sounded so solemn she felt compelled to turn around to face him. "I don't want to disappoint you." His face was pulled into a frown and he was staring at his hands.

She lowered her hand. "I don't understand."

He licked his lips and his eyebrows pulled together. "What exactly is it you're expecting from me?"

 _Oh no._ Had she startled him by appearing too eager? "I don't know if I'm expecting anything," she told him, "but one can hope, can they not?"

"And what do you hope for, Alayne?"

Too many things, even after all that had happened. But who was to say she was wrong for doing so? Jon had come here, and that was already more than she could have prayed for. "That you will prove to be a better man than the ones who came before you."

He turned to look at her again, his eyes flitting over her face. "Alayne," he said, lifting his hand, and then clenching it into a fist as he lowered it again. 

"I am a maid," she blurted out as she faced him, heat rising to her cheeks as she suddenly realized how he might have misunderstood her words.

"I can't say I care about that overly much. I wouldn't really mind if you weren't."

"Most men do," she said. 

"I suppose I'm not like most men." 

She smirked and arched an eyebrow.

He barked out a laugh. "That made me sound terribly pretentious, didn't it?"

She bit her lip and folded her hands behind her back, twisting her upper body to the side to avoid his gaze.

"I'll take that as an agreement," he said dryly. "Alayne," he continued more seriously, "for a long time I didn't think I would ever wed anyone, so all of this is new and unexpected for me." He lifted his hand again, and this time he reached out cup her cheek.

She closed her eyes and leaned into his oddly smooth palm, encountering a rough ridge under his smallest finger. How long had it been since she'd known a truly gentle touch?

"I'm not sure what I am trying to say," she heard him admit, and something in his voice made her look up at him. His eyes were searching her face again and his thumb brushed the underside of her lip as his own parted.

She could tell what he was going to do before he began moving in. And for a heartbeat, she started leaning in, wanting him to kiss her, but then she froze. She took a step back, and his hand dropped from her cheek.

This could have been the first kiss she had ever truly wanted, but she knew it would be spoiled if Jon kissed her without knowing the truth. 

"Alayne?" he asked, and she looked down at her feet. She couldn't answer all the questions in his eyes. She mustered a shy smile before she glanced up at him again. 

"Soon," she promised him. She started walking backwards, careful not to trip over the hem of her gown, grinning as she moved away from him. "Jon," she mouthed before turning around and picking up her pace, risking one last glance over her shoulder to find him still staring at her. 


	5. Jon

_Would you love me?_ That was what she had asked him. Their conversation in the mess hall, the things she had said up on the gallery, they had all led him to believe she might be receptive to a promise that their marriage could become more than duty if that was what she wished. She had also said that she hoped he would be better than all the men who came before him. Had he disappointed her by trying to kiss her? For a couple of moments, he had been certain that she was going to let him, and she hadn't seemed too upset as she'd walked away from him.

None of it truly mattered though. He needed to keep his eyes on the prize. Marrying Alayne was meant to seal an alliance with the Vale, an alliance the North desperately needed. Their personal happiness was not the aim of their marriage. But he liked Alayne, even though he had only known her for a short time, and he had allowed himself to hope that they could have more.

He had another meeting with Lord Baelish around noon and the man seemed pleased that Jon was getting along so well with his daughter. There was something odd about the way he praised Alayne's beauty, wits and courtesy, even going as far as waxing poetic about her eyes, which he claimed were as blue as a sunlit sea. For a moment, a vile suspicion started to creep up on Jon, but he decided to shrug it off. He had no reason to presume Lord Baelish might be guilty of such foul desires or deeds, even if he distrusted and disliked the man.

He convinced himself it was yet another way his mind kept forcing the newfound knowledge on him about his true father's family, who had an unsavoury history with such practises. The Lord Protector must simply be pleased to have found an even better match for his bastard daughter than Harrold Hardyng, and his tendency to exaggerate when singing her praises must stem from an uncertainty whether the wedding would actually take place, so he assured the man that he was pleased with the arrangement and was looking forward to the wedding.

Baelish surprised him by being extremely generous in terms of what he was willing to sell, give and lend the North and the Watch, but Jon was sure he wasn't offering any of it out of the goodness of his heart. Soon enough, he started talking about lasting alliances between the noble houses of the North and the Vale.

"More marriage alliances?" Jon asked him.

"Ser Albar Royce is still unwed, and the Lady Myranda has been a widow for too long," the Lord Protector told him. "And there are more nobles in the Vale who would be glad to strengthen ties with the North."

"I am happy to discuss possibilities," Jon conceded. "But I have to warn you I am not the kind of king who will force these marriages on any of my bannermen. I will hear them before I make any final decisions."

"Of course," Baelish agreed with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I do have one suggestion we might be able to come to an accord on today."

Jon nodded to indicate he was listening. 

"I have heard your sister escaped from the Boltons and came to you before the battle."

Jon clenched his jaw and his hands curled into fists.

Baelish' eyes flitted down, telling Jon he hadn't missed his reaction. He stroked his beard. "I understand your... reluctance, Your Grace, but Ser Harrold is a good man," he assured him. "I believe you can imagine I wouldn't have considered him as possible husband for my own daughter if I believed he wasn't. He would treat your sister well, especially after the horrors she's been through."

He should tell Lord Baelish that the girl who had been saved from the Boltons' claws was not Arya at all, but he didn't. Instead, he nodded again, and let the Lord Protector explain more of his ideas. 

That afternoon, Jon learned how quickly news travelled at the Gates of the Moon, when Myranda Royce came marching up to him with a scowl on her face and her hands on her hips. She gave him the courtesy of a smile and a proper greeting, but then she started shaking her head.

"And here I was thinking I would be thanking you by now, Your Grace," she sighed dramatically.

"I'm afraid I'm not following you, my lady," he said, not feeling in the mood for one of her games.

"My Harry was finally free from Alayne," she explained, "but now I hear he is supposed to wed your sister?"

Jon narrowed his eyes at her. "How..." He let the question trail off.

She smirked up at him. "I am the Lady of this castle, Your Grace. I hope you did not imagine I was unaware of anything that happened inside these walls?"

Jon didn't like the sound of that at all. What else did Lady Myranda know that she wasn't supposed to be privy to? Had he said or done anything compromising since he had arrived here? "The possibility of a betrothal between Ser Harrold and my sister Arya is still on the table," he told her through clenched teeth. "Nothing has been decided yet."

"Ah, so all hope is not lost yet," she answered with a grin.

"I reckon it's not, Lady Myranda," he said. "You may still get _your Harry._ " _You're welcome to him,_ he added mentally.

Jon slept fitfully that night, until the early hours of the morning, when he dreamed he was out in the woods, running around on all fours. He could see the mountain and the castle from the forest, so when he woke up, he knew that Ghost was close. He'd discovered that there was a forest beyond the postern gate of the castle, and from what he had seen through Ghost's eyes, he suspected that was where his wolf was.

After breaking his fast, he headed out to the forest, rewarding the guards who opened the gate for him with a coin of silver each. He walked up the path leading into the trees until he was surrounded by them, and silence fell over him, but he had only walked a short way, when he heard a woman singing.

He had heard her perform before, so it didn't take long for him to recognize Alayne's voice. He stood staring into the treeline for a moment, wondering what he should do. After all the things he had seen, he wasn't quite sure he still believed in any gods, but he did think it odd, eerie even, how it seemed as if they kept meeting each other by chance. The Gates of the Moon was a large castle, and yet they kept running into each other.

He decided to follow the sound, as he didn't truly have a reason to be avoiding her, and wherever she was, would be as good a place to start looking for Ghost as any. When he stepped into the small clearing where Alayne was singing, he discovered that his direwolf was there as well.

Jon's lips parted and he was sure his mouth would have fallen wide open if he hadn't immediately closed it again. But then a smile tugged up his lips at what he was witnessing.

Ghost was sitting on his haunches, his giant tongue lolling out of his maw and his eyes half-closed in bliss, as if he was simply an over-sized dog and not a direwolf. The cause of his enjoyment was sitting next to him on her knees, still singing to herself, but more softly now, and she was brushing out Ghost's matted fur, rubbing his ears or the underside of his chin while she worked out the knots and gnarls. The sun happened to appear from behind a cloud, bringing out the red in her chestnut hair, and Jon thought he may have never seen a lovelier sight. 

“He likes you," he called out to Alayne. She looked up at him and offered him a grin. 

“Of course he does. He’s a good boy.” She pressed a kiss to the side of his muzzle and patted the same spot with her hand. 

"His name is Ghost. He's a direwolf," he told her, trying not to linger on the fact that she had kissed the wolf, but not him. 

She nodded and smiled up at the wolf, who pushed the side of his muzzle into her hand. As he turned his head, Jon noticed that she had braided colourful ribbons into the fur covering the direwolf's neck.

"This isn't the first time the two of you have been here together?" he asked.

"No," Alayne admitted, leaning against Ghost's side. "I found him here yesterday, and I promised to come back for him. Didn't I, Ghost?"

Jon stared at the sight before him. Ghost seemed to be enjoying Alayne's attentions, which he understood, though his wolf's behaviour was a bit unusual. He would very much like to be on the receiving end of those attentions. It was Alayne who baffled him. Most people were frightened by the mere sight of the white direwolf with his fierce red eyes, yet here she was, treating him as if he was a lady's lapdog. He had never seen anyone react to a direwolf in such a way.

But then, as memories of happier times started coming back to him, of a girl he had once called sister and a wolf pup who had died a long time ago, it hit him that he had. He stood frozen, his mouth half-open in shock, and when she looked up at him, the cheerful smile slipped from her face.

"Sansa?" he whispered, staring back at her in shock.

She pursed her lips and nodded. "You shouldn't call me that here though. Someone might hear."

His body was startled back into motion, and his hands came up instinctively as he started shaking his head. "I don't understand."

"It's a long story," she muttered, staring down at her lap. Ghost hadn't left her side.

He shook his head again. "I'm not sure I want to hear it right now."

 _A true Targaryen, aren't you?_ a voice that sounded suspiciously like Lady Stark's mocked him as he stumbled away from his half-sister--no, cousin. But she didn't know that. Now it made sense to him why she hadn't let him kiss her. But then why had she allowed him all the rest? What was wrong with her?

He was certain he would get an answer soon enough, but right now, he was too confused, too angry, and too disgusted with himself to face her again. 


	6. Sansa

Sansa braced herself and took a deep breath as she stood in front of the door to Jon's chambers in the guesthouse. _Be brave,_ she told herself, _like Alayne, like a Stark._ She knocked and waited.

He opened the door with small eyes and tousled hair, and a rumpled, open tunic he had hastily thrown on. She could see more scars on his chest, but it was too dark to get a good look at them. He frowned down at her, blinking and rubbing his eyes scruffy beard, but said nothing.

"Can I come in?" she asked, lowering her hood. "It's safe," she added. "None of Petyr or Myranda's spies are around at this hour."

His frown deepened, but he nodded and stepped aside to let her in. He closed the door behind her and turned to face her. His face gave nothing away, but then he advanced and his arms were around her, pulling her into his body. She wrapped her own arms around him and tucked her head under his chin, nuzzling her cheek into his chest.

He was warm and solid, and he smelled like pine, leather and fresh sweat. He pressed his lips to her hair and sighed, his arms tightening around her. "Why did you lie to me?" he whispered roughly.

She wasn't ready to talk yet, so she only turned her head and pressed her brow to his shoulder. "I'm sorry," she squeaked into his collarbone. She couldn't tell how much time had passed when he finally released her and walked over to the settee and sat down, patting the space beside him. 

As she took a seat, he told her, "Talk. Please."

She folded her hands in her lap and stared at them. There was a candle on the table in front of her that made her blink when she looked up again. "I _am_ sorry for lying to you, Jon."

He combed his hair back with his fingers and pursed his lips, nodding. "I was shocked, and and a little hurt, and very confused," he admitted. 

He didn't have to elaborate for her to understand. Somewhere along the way, as she had tried to play her part of Alayne, the lines had been blurred. She certainly couldn't tell whether it was Sansa or Alayne who had wanted Jon to kiss her up on the gallery. She took a deep breath and allowed herself another moment to gather her thoughts. "I've been Alayne for a very long time, to protect myself."

He blinked and shook his head. 

"Sansa Stark is wanted for murdering King Joffrey."

"Did you?" he asked her. "Did you kill King Joffrey?"

"I didn't know. The poison was in my hairnet." She shook her head. "I didn't know, but there are witnesses who will claim that I did."

"It would have been a righteous kill if you had," he muttered. "He deserved it."

She nodded and licked her lips. "I wanted to tell you. I really did. But it was easier this way. I was already slipping up too often since you came here."

"I don't understand," he told her. "I would have taken you home in a heartbeat if you had told me. You'd be safe back North. No one there would care whether you killed him or not, and they wouldn't sell you out to the Lannisters."

She offered him a sad smile. "But you didn't come here for me."

His brow furrowed. "No, but--

"You came here for the Vale's men and their food and resources."

He gave her a quick nod. "True."

She took a deep breath. "Sansa Stark can't give you those, but Alayne can."

He stared at her, long and hard, and then asked, "Was it him? Baelish? Did he force you to do this?"

She shook her head slowly. "No, he didn't force me, but..."

"But what?"

She inhaled deeply, and for the first time, she found herself ready to admit something she must have known for a long while now, but hadn't been able to face. "I'm afraid of him."

Jon took her hand and nodded. "I can see why."

"No," she objected. "You don't understand. He killed Aunt Lysa." Suddenly, the words started tumbling out of her mouth. "She saw... He kissed me, and she saw. She was jealous, she tried to throw me out the Moon Door, but he got to her first."

Jon remained quiet as he squeezed her hand. "Does he still try to kiss you?" His voice was a low growl and his fingers were dangerously close to crushing hers with their firmly tightening grip.

He would know if she lied to him. "Sometimes." When she looked up, Jon's face was twisted into a mask of rage and there was fire in his suddenly black eyes. So there _was_ something of the dragon in him. 

He leapt to his feet and started pacing, shoving a pile of scrolls off the table, making her flinch. "I will kill him. I swear it, one day I will kill him."

She wasn't quite sure how to feel about that vow. "But you can't," she reminded him, "not yet. You need him to get the Vale's support."

He gave her a reluctant nod. "Then what do you suggest we do?"

She wrung her hands together, staring at them as she bit her lip. "For now," she answered, looking up, "I think we should play along."

He walked over to her and dropped back down onto the settee. "You mean to say we should get married?"

She nodded. "As soon as Jon and Alayne are wed, you can take me away from here."

He arched an eyebrow. "Jon and Alayne, huh?"

"Sansa is still married to the Imp," she explained, "and Alayne doesn't exist, so it wouldn't be a real marriage."

He stared at her with a deep frown etched into his face, opening his mouth several times, but whatever it was he wished to say, he seemed to think better of it.

"I still can't believe you're really here," he said with a smile that lit up his face. "I thought you were dead, like all the others," he added in a whisper, his face falling again. 

They were silent for a while, and she wondered if he was also making himself sad with happy memories. 

"Well," he sighed, and she believed there was some relief in it. "This changes matters."

"What do you mean?"

"You'll be Queen in the North soon," he announced, "and Lady of Winterfell."

She smiled back at him. "I suppose people will call me that when I'm pretending to be your wife."

He shook his head. "That's not what I meant. Winterfell is yours, the North is yours. I have no right to either of them."

She put a hand on his arm. "Of course you do." He pulled away from her and she felt a sharp pang in her stomach.

"You don't understand."

"I do," she insisted.

"No, Sansa, you can't. You don't know the truth." He squeezed his eyes shut and covered them with one hand.

 _Oh, so you do know._ "I can," she said firmly. "And I do."

"What?" he asked, lowering his hand as he looked up at her.

Her shoulders rose and fell. "I know who your mother was, Jon."

"How? How long have you known?"

She smoothed out her skirts. "The day before the feast." She lowered her head. "Lord Baelish told me." She almost expected him to be angry about that, and he probably should be. There was no telling what Petyr might use that secret for. But Jon only appeared more defeated to her. 

"Then you also know who my father was," he whispered roughly. He put his elbows on his knees and rested his head in his hands. 

"I do," she confirmed. 

He twisted his neck to look at her. "And you don't hate me?"

Her brow furrowed. "Why would I?"

He came closer and covered her hand with his own, resting his forehead against hers and whispered, "Thank you, Sansa."

She thought that was rather silly of him, but she wouldn't tell him that. 

"Fa-your father lied to me all my life."

She pursed her lips. "He lied to us, too, and he lied to my lady mother."

He pulled away. "Aye, and she hated me because of his lies."

She couldn't deny that. She'd often taken her mother's side, too, unable to bear the pain in her face whenever she looked at Jon. If Catelyn Stark had known, would it have changed anything? "And what if we had known? Would we have lived our lives in fear that one day, the wrong person would overhear a conversation and find out? She might have resented you even more for that."

There was defiance in his eyes, but she knew he couldn't refute what she had said. 

"He should have told me at some point," he insisted stubbornly. Sansa could almost feel his pain. "He should have told me when he learned I wanted to join the Watch." His voice broke on the last word. 

She moved closer to him and held him as he tried to breathe through the sobs he wouldn't allow to come out. "I understand, Jon," she whispered after a long while. "You feel as if father has betrayed you, and let you down." She wished someone would have warned her, too, told her something to stop her from going to King's Landing. "But I'm sure Father was only trying to protect you."

"Then I'm afraid he failed me." _He failed me, too._ For such a long time, she had only blamed herself, but she could see that now. There was so much she needed to tell him, so much she needed him to tell her, but all of that could wait, until later.

Finally, Jon broke the silence. "You know they will all hate me once they find out who my real father was."

She didn't need to ask him who he was referring to. The entire North still loathed Rhaegar Targaryen for what he had done to Lyanna Stark. "You forget that you are your mother's son, as well, Jon. But we don't have to tell anyone, ever. I will keep your secret, I promise."

He disentangled himself from her embrace. "We do, Sansa. You may be able to keep such a secret, but I am not." That hurt, but she pushed the sting of it down, perhaps she deserved it.

"The truth must come out at some point," he continued. "And even if it's true that my mother was a Stark, Winterfell is still yours, not mine. The Stark name is yours, not mine."

An idea came to her then, or perhaps it had slowly started dawning on her from the moment Petyr had told her the truth, and it had just now drifted to the surface of her mind. "It could be ours."

He offered her a wistful smile. "Just because you say so doesn't make it so. It will always be yours, just yours."

She shook her head. "You don't understand, Jon. If Tyrion Lannister's death were to be confirmed, or if the High Septon granted us an annulment, Sansa could-- I mean, I could marry you, but truly this time, so you would be able to stay and keep the Stark name."

She couldn't decipher the look he was giving her, so she pushed her shoulders back and said, "It wasn't a lie. None of it was."

He tilted his head to the side and raised his eyebrows.

"The feast, the conversations we shared." She took a deep breath. "I'm not sure what it makes of me, but when I almost let you kiss me, it was not a lie;"

"I know what it makes me," he said darkly, "but it was real for me as well." He took her hand again. "As for the proposal you just made me," he added, his thumb brushing her knuckles, "we'll see about all of that when the time comes."

She leaned in and reached out to cup his cheek with her free hand, searching his eyes in the candlelight before pressing a soft kiss to his lips. "We'll see," she agreed. 


End file.
